


echoes of the past

by sparkling_cider



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Gen, Vaguely Introspective, i tried to make it sound like wtnv but i think i failed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 08:53:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18587911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkling_cider/pseuds/sparkling_cider
Summary: You guys know that moment in episode 44 when Dana sees her future self? This is my taken on what future-Dana was thinking at that moment.





	echoes of the past

**Author's Note:**

> It's possible that there's stuff in episodes after this that contradicts something in this story. If so, sorry!

Dana is twenty-nine years old, and it is her brother's birthday. There is a cake that says, "Happy 33rd B-Day!" on it, and on the table next to it is a stack of paper plates and plastic forks.

Dana knows that her mother is embarrassed about these last two facts. She ran out of her nice dishes and nice silverware yesterday, when their family's Sheriff's Secret Police representative stopped by with an unexpectedly large group of friends. It was a nice time, but now the cake has to be served on paper plates. Dana's mother thinks that this is tacky. Dana knows this, but she is not thinking about the plates.

She is thinking about herself. More specifically, she is thinking about the she who she was seven years ago. She is thinking about Poetry Week, and the doors to the Dog Park slamming shut with her inside, and the long, painful journey that she would have to make to return home.

Dana is thinking about all of these things, but mostly she is thinking about this moment. This is the moment—right now, before the cake is cut but after it has been placed on the table—that her past self glimpsed all those years ago. She remembers it still, in a way that she doesn't remember her father's face, or if she had a father, or how long this party has gone on for.

Any moment now, Dana should be appearing. Her hair will be longer, and her eyes will be less tired but more concerned—no, scared. Her eyes will be scared.

This Dana has not been scared in years. Not more than the recommended daily dose, required by the city council, at least. But that's a different kind of fear: the fear of the void, the fear of sharp-toothed, sharp-clawed figures in the dark.

The younger Dana, the one that is twenty-two years old, is scared of more than that. She is scared of what she thinks is the truth but is in fact the cleverest lie. Twenty-two-year old Dana is terrified of not mattering.

In ten minutes or seven years ago, Cecil is going to tell her that she already is someone, that she matters simply by virtue of existing. She won't believe him, but then, no one ever believes that kind of thing. It is a lesson that needs to be learned, and Dana—the Dana of today—knows now that the only difference between the two of them is the difference between every child and their adult counterpart.

Dana, today, is grown up. Dana, seven years ago, is a just a kid, trapped in a dimension she doesn't understand, flickering quietly into existence a few feet away from her older self.

Around them, the screams and yelling start. Their family stampedes in the attempt to get away from the ghost/hallucination/mirage. Dana's face falls, bewildered and oh-so-young. She is so much farther away from home than she could possibly imagine. The road she has in front of her is a hard one, and when she reaches the end she will not be the same as when she started.

Dana—the Dana of today—turns to her younger self, and holds out her arms, and smiles.


End file.
